Roots & Wings 2x0
by razztaztic
Summary: Revisiting my "Roots & Wings" universe. Same families. Same characters. 206 more stories. (Does not follow official canon after Season 7.) Mostly rated T but may creep into M occasionally. "Roots & Wings" Wiki: rootsandwingswiki (.) com
1. The Dude Princess

The front door flew open with such force, it slammed against the wall. Booth and Brennan, enjoying a quiet cup of coffee alone together while Zach napped, hurried out of the kitchen. They hadn't gone a dozen steps before Christine's small body hurtled into Booth. The sound of crying was somewhat muffled by his t-shirt but her tiny form shook with sobs. He crouched down to eye-level and murmured sounds of comfort while, baffled, Brennan looked over their heads at Kennedy and her mother, Nichole.

"What - -?"

"I'm cu-cu-cursed!" Christine wailed, hiccuping through the words. "Whitney put a cu-curse on me! I'm gonna die!"

Kennedy launched herself at Christine, almost knocking Booth off his feet when she draped herself over her best friend. Her cries doubled the volume in the room. "Don't die, Christine! Don't die!"

Out of all the complaints they expected to hear after insisting Christine attend Whitney's eighth birthday party, being cursed wasn't one of them.

Nichole covered her mouth with one hand and tried to cough instead of laugh. "Apparently Whitney's mother did one of those online DNA tests and . . ."

Christine raised her splotchy red face from Booth's shoulder. "Whitney said her great-grandmother was a dude princess and did magic and spells and so she could, too, and she . . . she . . . cursed me!"

"Dude - -?" Booth looked helplessly from Brennan to Nichole.

"Druid," Nichole explained, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth. "Courtney said most of her ancestors came from Ireland and Scotland. I'm not sure how Whitney got from there to the druids but she went _all_ the way in."

"She put a curse on me!" Gumball-sized tears welled again in Christine's eyes, as she looked piteously from one parent to another.

Kennedy was quick to back her up. "She did! She did this - -" She put her hand against her cheek and wiggled her fingers. " - - and said magic words and put a curse on Christine!"

Christine turned away from Booth and fell into Kennedy's arms. "She cursed me, Kennedy! I'm gonna die!"

"Baby, you're not going to die. Come on, let's get you two mopped up." Booth's knees crackled as he rose from his crouch. He separated the girls, then lifted them one at a time to a seat on the island in the kitchen.

"But she cursed me, daddy," Christine insisted, as he wiped their cheeks dry with a cloth napkin. "She did."

Kennedy's braids bobbed against her shoulders when she nodded vigorously. "She did."

Their small faces were so serious, Booth had to struggle not to smile. "No, honey, I promise you that she didn't."

"But how do you know?"

"Because," Brennan interrupted, "based on standard generational measurements, Whitney's great-grandmother was probably born sometime around 1950, and the Druids disappeared from recorded history by the end of the second century."

Christine and Kennedy looked at each other, and then at Booth.

"Whitney's great-grandmother is the same age as Pops," he told the girls, "and the Druids lived way back with the dinosaurs so she couldn't have been one."

Brennan immediately objected. "There were no dino-"

Booth cut her off with a look. "The point is," he said, raising his voice, "they were both here a long time ago so . . ." He patted Christine's knee. " . . . You're safe. Okay?"

"But she did magic," Kennedy reminded them. "What about that?"

"There's no such thing as magic."

"Bones . . ."

"Booth!"

"I'm just saying."

"Are you?" Brennan crossed her arms and stared at him pointedly. Behind them, Nichole turned away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. The girls, meanwhile, looked from one to the other as if they were watching a tennis match. "Are you really suggesting that magic actually exists?"

He crossed his arms, too, and glared right back. "I'm just saying that we don't know what we don't know. What about miracles, hmm? What about those?"

Brennan looked at him in disbelief. "Are you equating religion with magic?"

"God is not magic!" A muscle jumped in Booth's clenched jaw before he deliberately turned his shoulder to her. "You know what, I'm not having this conversation with you. Christine, honey, Whitney didn't curse you and she can't do magic. I promise. You aren't going to die."

Christine's chin threatened to wobble again. "But what if she tries to curse me again?"

"Poke her in the eye."

"Bones!" Booth looked at Brennan in horror as Nichole gave up and fled to the living room, laughing uproariously. "You can't tell an eight-year-old to poke another eight-year-old in the eye!"

Brennan's chin rose. "Why not? It worked in New Orleans."

"Because that guy wasn't a real Voodoo warlock!"

"So now you're suggesting that there are real Voodoo warlocks?"

"No . . . I . . . You . . ." Brenann's open mockery left Booth stammering in frustration. Growling, he threw up his hands.

Christine and Kennedy were still watching them. "So can I poke Whitney in the eye or not?"

"No!"

"Only if she's pretending to curse you."

"BONES!"


	2. Heart of Gold

It was the quickly smothered laughter that got her attention. Cam stopped in the hallway outside Hodgins' office and listened again. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon and although she'd seen Brennan headed toward Limbo a few hours earlier, she'd thought the lab otherwise deserted. Other than the quick jaunt to the lady's room from which she was returning, she'd spent a productive afternoon working through the endless paperwork her job required, unaware of any other presence in the building.

But there it was again . . . something . . . A whisper? She backed up a few paces and leaned back even further to peer through the glass walls of her bug man's sanctuary. Through a leaf-filled tank that was home to God-knows-what, she could just make out two small heads, one framed in dusky curls.

Her heart dropped. Zach and William, alone in Hodgins' lab.

Mild panic set in as she rushed toward them. Left to themselves, Christine and Michael were good for at least one broken microscope and a tray or two of spilled instruments. When Zach and William were unsupervised, something might blow up.

"Hey, hey, hey! What are you two doing? And more importantly, where are your parents?"

The boys jumped in surprise and, Cam thought, as she studied them through narrowed eyes, with guilt. Only a few weeks separated the eleven-year-olds but Zach stood a head taller than his cohort. Serious in nature and somewhat awkward, he shuffled on his feet, while William, already an incorrigible flirt, used his dimples to blinding effect.

"Mom is working in bone storage."  
"Well, hello there, Dr. Cam. Your hair looks really pretty tied back like that."

"Can it," she ordered William, without a trace of a smile. "What are you up to . . ."

Her voice trailed off when she noticed the jiggly lump of pale gold on the work table behind them. William's quick slide over was too late.

"Is that my ballistic gelatin?" Her horrified gaze skimmed over several other similar, misshapen hunks scattered nearby. "Is that ALL OF MY BALLISTIC GELATIN?!"

"Well . . ."

"We're making a present," William interrupted quickly, blinking innocently as he fastened his thickly lashed, brilliant blue eyes on her. "For Valentine's Day, for this girl in my school. Her name's Chloe and she's not my girlfriend, at least not yet, but I really really like her, Cam. She's so pretty. Not as pretty as you, of course," he smiled, trying to dimple his way out of trouble again, "but I still like her a lot."

Cam wasn't buying any of it. "Why don't you get her a box of chocolate or a pair of earrings like a normal person?" she cried. "Do you know how much money you've just wasted? What kind of present are you trying to make out of ballistic gel!?"

"A heart," William explained, as Zach picked up one of the wiggling blobs. "Not one of those Hallmark hearts but - -"

"A real heart. I mean, a model of a real heart." Zach pointed out sections that had been cut away with jagged, crude strokes. "See, we've been trying to carve out the aorta and the inferior vena cava but it's not right yet."

"But we've almost got it," William said, clearly meaning to reassure her. "One more block of fresh gel should do it. And we need some red and blue dye, so the differences between the veins and the arteries will be obvious."

Zach held the lump higher and studied it carefully. "Dye is a great idea! And we could slice away the front section to expose the right ventricle. We may need to label it," he told William, forgetting all about Cam. "How well does Chloe know anatomy?"

Cam stamped her foot in frustration. "You are not getting another block of ballistic gel! Or dye! Of any color!"

"Is something wrong? Why is Dr. Saroyan yelling?" Brennan walked in, frowning at the small group. Her head tilted when she noticed the block in Zach's hands. "Is that a model of a human heart? The carving is very crudely done."

"I know," Zach nodded, looking at it with disappointment. "But we're getting better."

"We need red and blue dye," William added. Once again, Cam was forgotten as he pursued what he hoped would be a more friendly supporter. "You know, to separate the arteries and veins."

Brennan took the model from Zach and, much as he had done earlier, lifted it up to examine it closely. "Yes. That would make a difference. The pulmonary veins also need more definition. Is this for a school project?"

"No, William is going to give it to this girl he likes at school. For Valentine's Day."

Brennan gave the young Lothario an approving nod. "An excellent idea. I know that I would have been very impressed if someone had given me an anatomical model of the heart, especially at your age."

Cam decided it was past time to intervene. "Excuse me! That is not an excellent idea! None of this is excellent! Number one, they used all of the ballistic gel! And number two . . . they used all of the ballistic gel!"

Scolded, the two boys stared at their feet before stealing a glance at Brennan. She merely shrugged. "Well, if this is the last of it, I suppose you'll just have to do your best. Perhaps I can help. What size scalpel are you using?"

Cam threw up her hands and marched out.

.

* * *

.

_(I'm working on the next chapter for "Hero." Pinkie swear!)_


	3. More Than One Kind of Family

The doors to the lab opened with a swish as Booth approached. The sound was a familiar one, even though his visits there had become considerably less frequent after his promotion to Deputy Assistant Director a few years previously. Most of the time, he only dropped in to pick up Brennan, either for lunch or, as was the case now, on the rare occasions they drove in to work together.

His nose wrinkled at the familiar trace of death and decaying flesh that scented the air. The platform was empty but after more than two decades of use and hundreds of bodies, the smell was just part of the space now, along with the odor of bleach and cleaning products that attempted in vain to dispel it.

The platform was empty . . .

Booth's steps slowed as the funeral silence of the room sunk in. Not only was the platform empty, but the technicians and lab workers who could normally be found scurrying around, busy with the myriad details of a bustling, working crime lab, were gone, too. Machines stood idle, computer screens were blank.

On reflex, he checked his watch. Barely 5:30, much too soon for the entire workforce to have gone home for the day. His stride lengthened again as he strode toward Brennan's office.

"Hey, Bones, what's up with the ghost town out there? Did Cam give everyone the day off or - -" He froze just inside the office door when Brennan looked up from her desk with tears streaming down her face. Alarmed, he hurried to her side. "What's wrong? Are you okay? The kids . . . Is it Jack? Angela?"

Brennan shook her head as she swiped at her damp cheeks. "No, the children are fine. It's Mr. . . . I mean, Dr. Abernathy. He's dead. He was killed last night, working on location."

Booth pulled her to her feet as a fresh round of tears filled her eyes. Names and faces clicked through his memory like the pages of a Rolodex until one came into focus. "Who? Wait . . . the kid, right? The one with the twang?"

Brennan went gratefully into his arms and nodded against his shoulder. "Yes. He was working in Kumasi, in Ghana, excavating a mass grave believed to have been used to hide British atrocities during the Ashanti wars. The news came through this afternoon. The site is on the edge of a wildlife reserve. The authorities believe he was killed by poachers." She raised her head and looked at Booth with red-rimmed, sorrow-filled eyes. Her voice broke. "I didn't even know he was working there."

"Oh, honey." Booth tucked her head against his shoulder and held her there, swaying slightly, as she cried. "Bones. Baby, I'm sorry."

"I should have been more diligent at keeping in touch," she sniffed. "I should have done more than a yearly newsletter or Christmas card. I should have made more of an effort - -"

Booth's hands were gentle when he pushed her back a few inches so that he could look into her eyes. "Don't do that," he said gruffly. "Don't. That's just life, we all let things like that happen. We all think we have plenty of time. And, you know, he could have reached out more, too. You're right here, where you've always been. Losing touch, that's not your fault. It's no one's fault. It's just one of those things that happens."

Still weeping, she laid her face against his chest again. "He was so young when he came here, just a teenager. So young, and now, he's gone. Only 34 years old and all that brilliance, lost to the world forever."

There was nothing he could do but hold her while she grieved the loss of another member of the family of young interns she'd gathered to herself over the years. He pressed his lips into her hair as she clung to him, sheltered in his warm, solid strength. As her tears finally began to subside, an idea bloomed, one that might make the loss of the young man easier for everyone who'd known him.

"You know what," he said quietly, "why don't we get them all together again? Your squints, I mean. If we do it this summer, we can give them all plenty of notice. We could make a weekend of it," he added, warming to the plan as details spooled out in his head. "We could use Hodgins' big house in the country, so everyone could stay there and no one would even have to get a hotel room. They could even bring their families. Wendell's wife just had their, what, third kid?"

"Fourth," Brennan murmured, and although the sound was thick with the remnants of tears, the crisis seemed to have passed. She looked up at Booth through lashes clumped into damp spikes, and smiled tremulously. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

He squeezed her waist and dropped a kiss on her nose. "It will be a little Jeffersonian reunion. And hey, maybe if it goes well, we could make it a regular thing. And we can take a few minutes somewhere in the middle to say a few words for . . ."

"Dr. Abernathy," Brennan said, when his voice trailed off. "Dr. Finn Abernathy. Yes. Yes, that would be lovely."

Booth tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with a gentle touch. "Good, then it's set. We'll take a look tonight and see whose addresses we already have. I'll track down the ones we need, then all we have to do is figure out when and let them know."

He was pleased to note that Brennan seemed somewhat lighter already, as if having something concrete to do helped ease the burden of grief. "We should involve Angela and Hodgins, too. Angela was very upset when she went home earlier. I think she'll enjoy helping to plan the weekend."

Booth agreed immediately. "Done."

Brennan's hand trailed down his arm to grasp his fingers. "Let's ask them to join us for dinner tonight so we can talk more about it. Antonio's? I want to go somewhere loud and noisy, and full of life and laughter."

The Italian restaurant near their home had become a family favorite, but Booth felt obliged to point out one tiny problem. "Christine and Michael are still grounded. Should we be taking them out for spaghetti and breadsticks?"

Brennan glanced down at their entwined fingers, then gave him a sad, wobbly little smile. "Perhaps just this once, we can relax that stricture. Given the circumstances."

"Okay. Given the circumstances." Her heartache had become his. Booth kissed her gently, then rested his forehead on hers for a moment. When he raised his head, Brennan touched his cheek.

"I love you."

He smiled back and put an arm around her shoulders. "I love you, too. Let's go home."


	4. Field Day Fun

Field day at Briarwood Preparatory was a raucous, loud affair. The manicured grounds behind the school were dotted with red-striped tents, most with their sides drawn up to let in the spring breeze. Flags snapping in the wind atop long posts drew attention to face painting stations or tables loaded with food and cold drinks, and here and there, groups of people clapped and shouted for students and family members caught up in competitions that ranged from three-legged races to flag football. The day was meant for fun, and judging by the noise level, was a resounding success.

If there was a dark cloud in the sky, it was the one hovering over a table where a row of five-gallon glass barrels dispensed water and lemonade. Meant to be handing out the reusable water bottles stored in boxes beneath the table, the girls assigned to work in the tent had merely lined the bottles up on the table and retreated to the shade at the back of the tent. Dressed identically in white shorts and a red Briarwood t-shirt, three of the girls stared toward the activity on the other side of the field with the same avid expression. The fourth girl slumped in a folding chair and scowled.

"I hate all of you. Just so you know."

Madison waved away yet another of Christine's complaints as she rose up on her toes to get a better look at the throng of people caught up in a fierce Frisbee battle. "Oh, stop. It's just a bit of harmless fun."

"For who?" Christine demanded. "For you maybe! Do I look like I'm having fun?"

Emma shrugged, too busy looking in the same direction as Madison to turn her head. "You don't count. Oh, look! There's one already! No, two!"

"Noooooo!" Petra squealed. Unable to see when Emma and Madison stood side by side, she elbowed her way through them to stand in front. "We haven't picked our numbers yet! I say 25."

"Oh, please. It will be way more than that. I say 40."

"41."

Madison rounded furiously on Emma. "You can't do that!"

Ever the peacemaker, Petra kept her eyes glued to the opposite field and tugged her phone out of her back pocket. "Let's just text our numbers to Christine. That way no one knows what anyone else guessed. Okay? That was another one, right? So that makes three?"

Christine snorted as the other two scrambled for their phones. She ignored the cheerful tune that tinkled out of her own phone. "It would serve you all right if I just deleted those texts."

"Don't you dare - - Four!" Madison crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her nose in the air. "I am so winning this year."

"You wish," Emma muttered. She smacked her phone against the palm of her hand. "We need someone to keep count, so it's official. Christine - -"

"You must be out of your damn mind."

"I'll do it," Petra offered quickly. "Did anyone remember to bring binoculars?"

"No, and you can't be the counter, either," Emma said. "You're playing."

Petra's scowl was almost as dark as Christine's. "What's that supposed to mean? I would never - -"

"I'm just saying - -"

"FIVE!" Madison deliberately interrupted the budding disagreement with a yell. "If you two are just going to argue about it, I'll keep count."

"No way."  
"No, you're not. You cheat."

Madison rolled her eyes but she didn't dispute the accusation. "Fine. We'll all keep count then. Speaking of, there's six!"

"Okay, okay!"  
"Fine by me."

Ignored and left to stare at their backs, Christine stuck one foot out and kicked the back of Madison's calf. "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer - -"

The response was immediate.

"CHRISTINE!"  
"STOP!"  
"SHUT UP!"

"Hmmmpf. Well, you're all gross and disgusting and as of today, I don't know who any of you are." Point made, Christine reached for her phone. Ignoring the text message icon, she opened a game and turned up the volume as loud as she could.

It didn't work. For the next fifteen minutes, Petra, Emma, and Madison turned a cold shoulder to the few people who needed assistance with the drink barrels and remained focused on the fields, occasionally shifting positions to face in a different direction. Once, Petra grabbed a folding chair and climbed up on it.

"There's 13."  
.

.

"Fifteen!"

"Are you sure . . ."

"Totally!"

.

.

"Ooooh, seventeen! I'm so winning!"

As Emma called out a triumphant "There's 20!," Angela approached the table with an empty bottle in each hand. She refilled them with fresh water, eyeing the girls curiously.

"How did you guys manage to get out of doing sack races and egg sprints?"

Emma turned her head without looking back. "We're on our periods."

Angela raised a skeptical eyebrow. "All four of you? At the same time."

"Ow, cramps." Clearly feeling no pain, Madison suddenly bounced on her toes. "Twenty-one! That was twenty-one!"

"And twenty-two," Emma crowed. "She went from shoulder to arm!"

Water flowed over Angela's fingers as she glanced from the three girls standing together, to Christine, slumped in a chair in the back of the tent and doing her best to ignore her friends. "What is going on?"

Christine stared at her phone as if it had just insulted her. "They have a bet on how many times women make an excuse to touch Dad today."

"Excuse me?"

Both of Angela's eyebrows rose this time. She followed the direction in which the girls were staring, easily picking out Booth in a group of parents and kids. He draped an arm around Zach's shoulders as the boy raised a Frisbee in triumph. Dressed in baggy cargo shorts and a white t-shirt, he shouldn't have stood out. But he did, especially with sweat-dampened cotton clinging to his back and arms. A woman old enough to be his grandmother patted his shoulder.

"Twenty-three!"

Proving that she was keeping at least half an ear on their conversation, Emma tilted her head back again. "There's a new Kate Spade bag at Nordstrom that we all want. The losers have to buy it for the winner."

"Excuse me?" Angela didn't seem to notice that she was repeating herself.

A woman with a streak of bright pink in her ponytail sidled up next to Booth and said something they couldn't hear. When he smiled and nodded, she laid a hand on his forearm and threw her head back with exaggerated laughter.

"Twenty-four." Madison's smile was almost feral. "Mr. B is like catnip to all these soccer moms, especially when he gets sweaty."

Petra pointed toward two men walking up to the group. "Look, it's Sara's dads. Do they count?"

"Oh, they count," Emma said.

Madison bumped Petra's arm with hers. "Side bet for the matching wallet - the short blond goes in first."

"Deal."

Only seconds passed before all three girls let out a cheer. Madison and Petra high-fived. "Yes! Twenty-five! And there's twenty-six!"

Emma almost immediately groaned. "Oh, no. Here comes Dr. B!" She spun around to Angela. "Quick," she said, waving her hands to shoo Angela away from the tent. "Go head her off. Go! Now!"

Angela refused to budge. She grabbed an empty chair as if she planned to stay a while. "Why? Brennan won't care. She's the one who gets to go home with him. She'll probably just laugh and talk about Booth's pheromones or women's hormones or something."

Madison whipped the chair out of her hands and threw it out of the tent. "No! If Dr. B comes over here where Christine is, Mr. B will come, too, and that will scare all the women away. I want that handbag! Go! Now!"

Angela went, but it was clear that she didn't want to. She pointed at Madison with a dripping water bottle. "Okay, okay, I'm going. But next time, I want in on this action. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Angela was forgotten as soon as she walked away. Shoulder to shoulder, the three girls stared across the grass.

"Isn't that Silas' mom?"

"Yes, it is. Excellent. The Grahams are getting a divorce. She's good for at least a shoulder pat and two arm touches."

"Yes! That's three more! Twenty-nine!"

Christine groaned and threw her head back against the rim of the chair. "I hate all of you. Did I mention that?"


	5. Duck and Cover

The strident notes of the warning blaring from Brennan's phone shattered the night. Deeply asleep, Booth and Brennan were only barely more awake when a loud voice followed.

_The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for . . . _

The same warning blasted from Booth's phone, setting up a terrifying round robin of competing alerts.

_. . . shelter immediately. Affected communities include Bethesda and Potomac in Montgomery County, Maryland, and the . . . _

_The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for the Potomac area of Montgomery County, Maryland, effective until 2:45 am. Take shelter immediately. Affected communities include Bethesda and Potomac in Montgomery County, Maryland, and the northwest corner of Fairfax County, Virginia. Repeat: The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning . . ._

By the time the last tones faded, Booth and Brennan were already racing toward their bedroom door.

"Get Zach," Booth ordered. "I've got Christine."

He didn't wait for a response, and Brennan didn't bother with one as they split off to opposite sides of the hallway. Mere seconds later, they were back, each with a sleepy child held safe in their arms. The tail of a plush purple dragon poked out under Brennan's elbow. As they hurried down the stairs, hail battered against the windows.

Christine's rumpled head lifted sleepily from his shoulder. "Daddy . . ."

"It's okay, baby," he told her, kissing her forehead before pressing her down again. "Everything's okay. I've got you. Mancave," he added, looking back briefly at Brennan as they reached the first floor. Above their heads, the sound of another warning rang out from their bedroom. "Dammit, I forgot my phone."

He didn't make a move to go back but Brennan was quick to assure him anyway. "I've got mine."

They were in the kitchen when the lights of timers and clocks on the appliances clicked off when the electricity failed. Through the window, they watched the swing hanging from the tree outside dance in crazy spirals with the wind, and hail the size of golf balls bounce off the lawn furniture. Suddenly, a loud crack broke through the gale as a large branch peeled away from the tree and was almost immediately thrown against the back door. Christine shrieked with fright.

Booth propelled Brennan inside the small room he'd claimed as his own and slammed the door shut. He put Christine on her feet and shoved the couch away from the wall, leaving just enough room for two adults to squeeze inside. Brennan immediately crawled into the space and stretched out on her side, Zach held securely against her chest. The three-year-old was still sound asleep with his dragon cuddled beneath his chin.

Booth followed at her heels, dragging Christine along and laying her down between his body and Brennan's. The little girl was wide-eyed with fear.

"What's happening? Why are we in here?"

"There's a big storm outside," Booth explained quietly, dropping a comforting kiss on her head. "We're just going to stay in here until it blows over. Everything will be okay, I promise."

A big crash from somewhere outside seemed to put the lie to the calming words. Christine whimpered and burrowed closer. "My treehouse!"

"The treehouse will be fine," Booth promised. "And if it's not, we'll just build another one. Everything's going to be okay. I promise."

Suddenly, the world fell silent. Over Christine's head, Booth and Brennan's worried eyes met.

"My ears just popped. Did yours?"

When Brennan nodded wordlessly, Booth pulled her as close as he could and angled his body so that his wide shoulders covered as much of his family as possible. Christine whimpered. Zach, still sleeping, mumbled something indecipherable. Brennan managed to get an arm free and draped it around Booth's neck.

"I love you."

"I love you."

As if waiting for a cue, a roar like a freight training running on the roof above their heads filled the house, which vibrated and shook like a giant hand had picked it up. Just a few feet away, the television hanging on the wall crashed to the floor and from elsewhere in the house came the sounds of glass breaking and items falling. Christine sobbed into her father's chest, while Booth and Brennan clung desperately to each other.

It seemed to last forever but was abruptly over almost as soon as it began. The roaring train disappeared and the howling winds died, leaving only the patter of rain falling, a sound that felt incongruously normal. After a minute or so of quiet peace had passed, Booth whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks. He and Brennan exchanged one brief, hard kiss before he untangled Christine's limbs from his and began the awkward process of scooting out from their temporary sanctuary.

"I'll take a look around, see what the damage is," he told Brennan. "Stay here until I give you the all clear, okay?"

She nodded as she pushed up to a sitting position. With Zach lying against one shoulder, she wrapped Christine close on the other side, murmuring words of love and comfort as the frightened tears continued to fall. When her phone rang, Brennan nudged the speaker button.

"Angela."

"You guys okay?" The worry in her friend's voice was audible. "According to the news, a tornado may have touched down over there."

"We're fine," Brennan said, repeating it for Christine's benefit when her daughter looked up with red, weepy eyes. "We're fine. We took shelter in Booth's room behind the kitchen. He's assessing the damage now. Are you okay?"

"We're good," came the relieved reply. "We hid in the closet in our room and waited it out. When the alert went off, we found William out on the balcony watching the storm. Can you believe that? I swear to God, I'm going to tie that kid to his bed from now on."

Brennan laughed. "Zach didn't even wake up. He's still asleep."

"Can we trade kids? I'm only halfway kidding." Another voice spoke from somewhere nearby. "Michael wants to know if the treehouse is okay."

Christine sniffed back the last of her tears and leaned over the phone. "Daddy says we might have to build a new one!"

"But we don't know that," Brennan interjected quickly. "We'll let you know."

"Okay. Jack is talking to Abe now. Apparently a tree got dragged across the tennis courts out on the estate but I think that's all the damage from out there. Could have been a lot worse, right?"

Brennan hugged her children closer. "Yes, absolutely."

"Well, call if you need anything. I'll talk to you later!"

When the phone was silent again, Brennan smoothed the silky flyaways from Christine's night-time braid, rocking slightly from side to side. "You will have quite the story to tell your friends on Monday, won't you?"

Christine tucked her head under Brennan's chin. "It was so scary."

"Yes, it was," Brennan agreed. "But I hope you also remember how quickly your parents reacted to get you and your brother to a safe location, and how your father used his own body to shelter you from harm. Your father and I will always do everything we can to keep you safe."

"Do you think my treehouse will be okay?"

"I think your treehouse will be fine."

The door opened then, as Booth slipped back inside. He smiled as two pairs of identical blue eyes looked at him expectantly, and reached a hand out to help Brennan to her feet. His relief was palpable.

"Well, we have a couple of broken windows, one in your office and one in the dining room, and the garage door is off its track, and some of the glass shelves in the living room collapsed. That Mayan thing is okay, though. Unfortunately." When Brennan rolled her eyes, he stole a quick kiss. "And the treehouse looks okay," he added, when Christine opened her mouth to speak. "But I'm still going to have someone come out and take a look at it, so no climbing up there again until I give the okay. Okay?" He tapped her nose and then picked her up in his arms when she nodded. "Good girl. Now how's about we see if you can get a little more sleep tonight while Mommy and I clean up down here. How does that sound?"

"I'm not sleepy anymore."

"I know, but let's try anyway. Power's still off," he told Brennan as they passed through the kitchen. "And there's some debris in the yard from trees. We're missing a lawn chair, too."

"Michael wanted to know about the treehouse, too," Christine told Booth as they climbed the stairs.

When Booth quirked a questioning brow at Brennan, she nodded. "Angela called to check on us. They're fine but apparently they found William watching the storm from outside on the balcony. She wants to trade toddlers."

Booth looked at his sleeping son as they separated to tuck their children back into bed. "I vote we keep this one."

"Me, too."


End file.
